High Society

Nature unrestrained, a lattice
of vibrations so cruel,
leaving me coiled around your finger,
then discarded on a grand piano to listen
ivory keys pounding
to my heart fingernails click.

Longing for the sound that soothes
the oscillating soul
a luscious, divine desire
little bottles of pink alcohol
clink together like
Florida, where I first became intoxicated at age three.

I left in my father’s arms
clutching a white cloth napkin that accompanied
what should have been a virgin
strawberry margarita, colors fade
like five-dollar tie-dye kits
washed away in spinning laundry.

A tangle of jewels
rust, copper, or red
pock marks stain the inner
coils like discordant notes dizzy
in my blood,
searching for the misplaced home.


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